


courage (going slightly faster)

by Lilian



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), First Kiss, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Nesting, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 10:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20329900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilian/pseuds/Lilian
Summary: After the bus ride, but before taking a bath in holy water, an angel decides to find his courage.





	courage (going slightly faster)

**Author's Note:**

> for hippocrates460: SOFT. I am, you are, Jesus is. <3
> 
> for you, dear reader: Have a nice day. :)
> 
> ps: Aziraphale doesn't capitalize the Bentley because he is an arsehole who is slightly jealous of a car that so clearly has Crowley's affections.

Aziraphale spends the bus-ride back to London praying in that absent-minded way he’s got used to over the last few hundred years. If he wanted to be more accurate about it, he should have called it “thinking, with directing some specific thoughts at God once or twice” – but for longer than he could remember, naming certain things outright had not been… exactly his practice. 

Now, with a burnt-down bookshop, an almost-apocalypse and a slightly uncomfortable body-share behind him (however nice and accommodating Madam Tracy had been, the situation was not ideal), his shifted perspective prompts him to rebelliously name the most important thing at Her. 

_ I love him! _

_ I love him, and if that makes me a bad angel, well… I just don’t care anymore. _

Crowley is a comforting presence next to him, unaware of his inner turmoil. Aziraphale watches him staring out of the window, and decides, _ enough of the waiting, of the caution. You cannot limit me anymore. You took my bookshop, let that be enough of a prize for all my sins. Let me love him until our destinies allow. _

They might not have a long time left. Who knows when Above and Below will come for them? Oh, Aziraphale wasted so much time _ worrying _. 

The bus stops in Crowley’s neighbourhood, but not in front of his house. Instead, it’s parked next to a luxurious hotel that Crowley slowly motions toward. Oh, but of course. Aziraphale never said anything to the offer of going to his flat beside the centuries-practised dismissal. 

Crowley is awkward on the pavement, gesturing towards the hotel, the perfect gentlemen as ever when it comes to respecting Aziraphale’s wishes. 

“Here, take my card,” Crowley says, producing one of those plastic things the customers always insist is actually a commonly used and reliable method of payment from his pocket and extending it towards him generously. “It might be wise to ease off on the miracles for a while.” 

Aziraphale sways back and forth slowly, hesitating. He doesn’t take the card, because if he does so, Crowley will bid goodnight and walk away, and Aziraphale doesn’t trust his voice to call out after him, not just now. 

_ Then again, they call them leaps of faith for a reason, perhaps? _ Bravery shouldn’t be such a hardship after the day they had. Aziraphale tells himself it’s no big deal, and efficiently cuts off the panicking that naturally comes right after. 

“Actually, my dear...” Aziraphale says and finds his tone not wavering, not one bit. “May I be so bold as to take you up on that kind offer? No need to spend money if you are not put out by having to lodge me at yours.” 

Crowley stares at him, mouth opening a smidge. Surprise, Aziraphale notes, even without seeing his eyes (those sunglasses, he tolerates them because they are Crowley’s, but he is always annoyed at them for how they hide Crowley’s eyes from him), and then his cheeks colour slightly. 

Which makes Aziraphale think of earthly pleasures, a joining of bodies, having him closer than ever before, and… for a few seconds, he gives into them like he never really dared before. 

God is quiet, up close inside him and far away wherever she is in Heaven. No warning, no acknowledgement, no punishment whatsoever. Aziraphale breathes out and smiles winningly. Oh, how wonderful. 

“You live – not far from here, if I recall correctly,” Aziraphale moves, taking a few steps closer, laying a warm palm on Crowley’s still stretched out hand, which overwhelms the dear boy so much he drops that plastic nonsense, and Aziraphale’s heart sings its adoration for him louder than any celestial harmonies ever echoed in it. 

Crowley picks it up, making a sound that doesn’t amount much to anything. When he emerges back, his face is even redder. 

“Yes, angel. Three streets or four.” 

“A lovely evening stroll.” 

They fall into step beside each other easily enough, and Aziraphale thinks back on the countless times, on the unnumbered roads they walked upon just like this. The times before roads were laid down before the cities formed. The dirt on their sandal-clad feet. 

Their shoulders brush, and Crowley utters a soft apology, as he always does – except for the times when he pretends to be so engrossed in their conversation that he “doesn’t notice” – and of course the times when he truly is so vividly concentrating on telling a story to him Aziraphale is the only one to record that point of contact with a heavy-light heart. 

Not any more. 

“May I--- May I take your hand, Crowley?” He asks, and it’s stupidly difficult to wrestle that question through his feelings in his throat, but it’s also – unapologetic, in another way.

The demon starts and stops with a sway in his hips, appearing quite frozen on the pavement and Aziraphale stays motionless beside him. After all those years of Crowley waiting for him, it’s the least he can do.

It seems like Crowley wrestles with his breath, or perhaps with a cough, or maybe, possibly, with words of astonishment. Aziraphale feels rather proud for a moment, before squashing it and chiding himself for it. (Old habits die hard.)

Crowley stares at him, eyebrows up and mouth turned down, but he gives a brisk nod eventually and extends his hand towards him. Aziraphale wishes he could see his eyes fully. His demon sucks in a noisy breath, and Aziraphale has half the mind to gather him into his arms then and there, out here on the street, to be able to breathe him in and never let him go. Better not, though – humans would disturb them after a while. 

“Come, then!” He tugs him gently by the hand. 

Holding his hand as they walk is as fantastic as running his fingers down at the spine of his most beloved books. Aziraphale never wants to go without it again, except perhaps if Crowley was carrying his books, and he could keep his hand on the small of his back instead. That would be also fine. (It would be the loveliest thing of all.)

They get to Crowley’s house too soon, but Crowley’s squeezes his fingers and keeps holding, uses his other to let them in the door. 

It’s dark inside at first, but Crowley finds the light switch with practised ease. Aziraphale steps towards the study where he’s been a few times, but Crowley pulls him away. 

“There is demon goo and holy water there,” he mutters, and Aziraphale draws in a sharp breath in spite of himself. Oh my. He had completely misunderstood “insurance”, hadn’t he? “Bedroom?” 

The question is entirely too casual. The subtle shaking of Crowley’s fingers, less so. 

“That will do nicely, my dear.” 

Aziraphale has never been to Crowley’s bedroom, but he has never defied Heaven nor walked hand in hand with his sweetheart either, so it’s really nothing to be stuck on, he tells himself firmly. 

Crowley’s bedroom is something out of a fairytale. First of all, there are plants. Very pretty - although, Aziraphale notes, not perfect ones. A few spots here, a sad one there, one with a half a leaf missing. They are keeping company to… 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, the sight hitting him in the chest and it seems to slide through his clothes, his skin, his other weird human bits and then right into the centre of his heart. 

The bedroom is nothing like the rest of the flat, no “minimalism”, no huge empty spaces. It’s like… it’s like another room of the bookshop, with Crowley’s presence peppered all over it. Besides his plants, there are clothes thrown around, which Crowley now bends to pick up and pile into a comfortable-looking armchair with an embarrassed huff. There is a miniature model of the bentley, and a statue winged beings, slightly familiar, and… so many books Aziraphale can’t quite look at them directly for more than a few seconds because he fears he’ll start crying. 

Some of them, no doubt, he gifted to Crowley over the years. It was a practice he kept up for a long time because, despite Crowley insisting that he never reads, he always regarded his presents with something soft on his face.

Some of them must be the stack Crowley keeps to surprise him with on the gloomy days. He used to always turn up with a new, rare, exquisite book back when the bookshop opened. 

It’s a space for Aziraphale. It’s a home. The most comfortable of nests. It’s a louder love confession than “I’ll take you anywhere you like”, louder even than stopping time to be able to speak to him again. 

Aziraphale’s heart has never beaten quite this loudly before. 

There are candles around the room, the expensive smelly kinds that Crowley pretends not to like, and he is going around lighting them one by one, most likely to prolong the time they have to face each other again. 

Aziraphale’ knees are unsupportive in his endeavour to contain all his love within his body properly and keep functioning at the same time, so he sits down on the bed. 

“It’s beautiful,” he tells him, looking at Crowley’s back. He knows there is something of a sigh in his voice. 

“You think so?” His favourite demon turns around, spots him on the bed, sways closer. 

“I love it,” Aziraphale says earnestly. Crowley smiles. It’s a little wild and manic, relief and tension coiled in one. 

Slowly, carefully, the dear little serpent sits on the other side of the bed, facing him. Aziraphale moves closer, watches him swallow. 

“Take them off?” He indicates his glasses with his hand. Thinks about pulling them off himself, not knowing if he’d be able to stop himself there. 

Crowley does it without a word of protest. His eyes are huge, nervous and full of yearning. 

“May I kiss you?” Aziraphale whispers with reverence and realises he should have asked to hold his face instead because it absolutely crumbles, misery and heartbreak washing over it. But even though the tears starting to spill, Crowley shudders and whines and pushes closer.

And so their lips meet for the first time, only a few seconds, perfect, chaste, coming home. 

“I love you,” Crowley declares as soon as he pulls back, biting his lips right after blurting it out, and Aziraphale guides him by a gentle hand to his neck to take cover against his shoulder. Somewhere in another plane of existence, his wings itch to fold around them protectively. He can feel tears soaking his clothes through, and soothes: 

“I love you too, darling. My sweetheart, my… dearest. There – there.” He pets his hair, rubs his back. Wishes he could force the whole of his confession past the lump in his throat. Wishes he could tell him:_ I’m so sorry I haven’t told you sooner. I shouldn’t have made you wait this long, dearest, I was a coward, but I promise to give you everything from now on. All of myself. You’ve been so good to me, so absolutely wonderful. I love you so much.” _

He finds himself whispering only “I love you” again, thinking himself horrible for feeling exquisite when another shudder runs through Crowley. 

They sit in silence only broken by the demon’s sniffing occasionally. 

Crowley quiets completely at some point returning the hug, clinging to Aziraphale as well. 

“Thank you, angel.” He sounds dazed. Half asleep. 

He really shouldn’t thank him, Aziraphale thinks but bites it back. He can spend a few years apologizing through touches, caresses, kisses. Words, eventually. Hopefully. He can shower Crowley with so much love he can bloom brighter than any of his flowers. 

“Kiss me again?” Crowley murmurs, and the second time is much longer, surer. Bit more wet and delicious. Having him this close and sharing this affectionate human thing with him is better than heaven ever was. 

Aziraphale pulls him closer and they kiss and hug and exchange soft touches until the morning comes. 

“If we survive,” Aziraphale says as they arrange themselves after the switch in each other’s respective bodies, and he puts on a tartar collar even though Crowley growls at him for it. “We will have that date I promised you all those years ago. A picnic maybe, or at the Ritz.” 

“And after that we’re gonna come back here and I’m gonna ravish you,” Crowley smirks at him with his own face, and Aziraphale is sure he would look much better with that expression - so he winks, trying to channel Crowley’s snakelike moves and speech (as they practised) when he answers: 

“I am looking forward to that ssso much, darling.” 

  


The end 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, its good for my soul and incredibly inspiring to get up in the mornings to :)


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